Line of Sight
by lets-talk-appella
Summary: They have no idea. For Pitch Perfect Horror Week Day 7 - Strange Neighbors. Rated M for dark themes and voyeurism.


**For Horror Week day 7 - Strange neighbors. I experimented with writing style, so this one is a little different.**

**Warnings for psychological horror and for voyeurism.**

* * *

Beca paces the bedroom she shares with Amy.

Back and forth, back and forth, until the carpet will surely show her path. She runs her hands through her hair in frustration, fingers tangling and snarling on the long, chocolate-colored locks that, when finally released, cascade to her shoulders in waves. She's wearing white denim shorts and a low-cut dark blue t-shirt that displays the barest hint of cleavage.

Amy lounges on her own bed, eyes following Beca as she paces. Back and forth, back and forth. She's in a gray long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up and black yoga pants. She looks concerned, as if she doesn't know how to help ease whatever frustration is bothering Beca.

* * *

The window is open in the kitchen. Chloe, Cynthia Rose, Emily, and Flo bake together, making cookies.

Chloe has flour smeared across her forehead where she'd absent-mindedly swiped her hand across it; the pale white powder sharply contrasts the blue of her eyes and the vibrancy of her hair.

"Flo, pass me the sugar?" she asks, and Flo does it, her bracelets catching the light. She looks happier than she has in a while; her semester has been harder than usual.

"This is aca-awesome! Thanks for inviting me over for Bella cooking," Emily says. She's basically bouncing with excitement at being included, though they've done this before. Many times. The Bellas often cook or bake together.

"Girl, calm down," Cynthia Rose says, though she's laughing as she stirs the ingredients Chloe measures and pours into the bowl. "Chloe, tell Emily to calm down before she makes a mess."

"You're fine," Chloe assures Emily, who somehow looks even more excited, her eyes bright and smile wide.

Their voices drift out the open window, as does the familiar smell of the cookies they make.

* * *

Ashley and Jessica—or Jessica and Ashley—sit on the floor of their shared bedroom. The room is painted a light yellow and is covered with Polaroids and other photos, drawings, and paintings of a variety of subjects. Across three walls, the most frequently portrayed and the most prominently displayed subject is the Bellas, both individual and group images.

Ashley/Jessica paints on the floor, the subject of her work obscured, while Jessica/Ashley sketches a rendition of Beca and Chloe standing together in front of a room. The auditorium, maybe, considering the whiteboards drawn behind them.

As they work on their art, they each glance at the other's progress, exchanging encouraging smiles.

Emily joins them a moment later with a blank canvas of her own.

* * *

Amy is sneaking out of the house. She slips out of the front door, taking effort to close it carefully, silently behind her. On the porch she pauses a moment to look around, staring into the darkness.

"Amy!" a voice hisses, and a smile fills Amy's face.

"Bumper!" she stage-whispers back, and she runs to where he stands half-concealed by a tree, taking his hand. He kisses her excitedly, messily.

After a few minutes of this and more whispering, they sneak out of sight, hand-in-hand.

* * *

Ashley/Jessica is watching porn again.

It's not the one she usually watches; the glow cast from her phone screen has a different sort of lighting from that of previous nights. She's in her bed, alone in the room for a rare moment. The lights are off, with only her phone screen to illuminate her features, casting them in harsh relief.

The window is closed, but her shades are lifted.

She stares at her phone intently. The light from it flickers and flashes, the stars of the video speeding up their actions. As they do, she shifts in her bed. She's holding her phone with two hands, but as the video continues, one hand falls from the phone to her chest. After another minute, she shifts again, and her hand slides below the sheets.

The movement is obvious. Her eyes remain glued to her phone, despite the rhythmic motion from lower under the sheets. It continues for a few minutes, the movement of her hand between her legs steady, occasionally punctuated by sharp jolts of her body.

The video must be nearing its end.

The motion of her hand below the sheets increases, becoming frantic, and her body goes rigid.

With a pointed, sudden jerk, her head pushes back into the pillow, exposing her throat for a long moment until, finally, she relaxes. Slowly, so slowly, her hand reappears from under the sheets. She reaches for a bedside Kleenex, and the phone screen goes dark.

* * *

Stacie is on the elliptical again, working the machine to its limits. She glares out the window toward the front sidewalk as if it has personally offended her. The concentration in her eyes is almost startling. She pushes herself, working faster, harder, until there are visible beads of sweat running down her face.

Her sports bra barely contains her breasts, the material stretched tight and darkened with perspiration. The muscles in her abdomen tense and relax in time with her efforts, standing out under her fair skin. Below that, her skimpy shorts leave little to the imagination, hugging the shape of her ass.

* * *

Chloe is in her bedroom.

She lies on her bed, reading a book, but the page hasn't turned in almost ten minutes. She's dressed, but casually in a simple blue-green blouse and jeans. It's Beca's favorite shirt on her. It must be. She wears it often.

The window is open, and the breeze is enough that it stirs her hair gently, almost caressing the strands of auburn. Auburn is a better descriptor than just "red." Red doesn't capture all the beautiful shades contained in Chloe's mane.

The door to Chloe's room opens, temporarily changing the lighting of the room. Chloe looks up from her book, her entire body snapping to attention as she leans forward to greet Beca. Beca closes the door behind her and locks it.

Beca's wearing a sheer black robe. She smiles a coy smile and opens the robe to reveal two scraps of dark red lace. She lets Chloe look, and look, and _look_, allowing her eyes to drink in all that porcelain skin. Skin waiting for a tongue to trail over it.

Chloe shifts on the bed and Beca smiles. She lets the robe slide from her shoulders to pool in a heap on the floor. She switches her weight to her other leg, maybe becoming impatient.

She leaves the light on.

Chloe rises slowly, reaching out for Beca. Their faces draw close, Chloe's hands finding purchase on Beca's hips and Beca's hands inching up Chloe's back, under her shirt. They kiss so softly, so tenderly. Their eyes are closed, both lost in the kiss, playing with the angle, making the most minute adjustments. When Beca catches Chloe's lower lip between her teeth, Chloe surges forward, pressing Beca into the wall, pinning her hands above her head.

Chloe drops to Beca's neck, and a throaty moan tears free from Beca, floating out the window and into the open air. Chloe's hands slide down, down from where she holds Beca's wrists against the wall to instead twist into Beca's hair. Beca reclaims her hands and pushes Chloe back far enough to toy with the hem of the blouse she wears. Beca lifts, and the garment ends up on the floor.

Chloe presses into her again, her black bra meeting Beca's red lace, their stomachs brushing with every breath they take. Beca's hands wander, roaming Chloe's sides, her hips, fingertips dipping under the waistband of her pants. They rise, cupping her breasts, and trail around her ribs to toy with the clasp of Chloe's bra.

Chloe's hands move first, though, flashing around behind Beca. A moment later, Beca's bra falls away from her chest, only to be replaced by Chloe's hands. Beca gasps, her back arching, pushing her perfectly round, white, soft-looking breasts into Chloe's palms. Chloe's thumbs run over Beca's pink nipples, once, twice, thrice, until they're erect. With a lick of her lips, Chloe's mouth descends, kissing down Beca's chest until her tongue flicks out to taste Beca's breast.

Beca's hands grasp at Chloe, winding into her hair, pulling her tightly to her chest. She has to lean heavily into Chloe's wall for support.

Chloe switches to the other breast, her fingers toying with the one that had previously been in her mouth.

Beca's hands, trembling, fall from Chloe's hair, sliding down her shoulders, to fumble at the clasp of Chloe's bra. She yanks at it desperately.

Before she can unhook it, Chloe pulls away, breathing hard. Beca looks absolutely shattered, her breasts covered in red marks from Chloe's mouth. Chloe moves to the window, pulling the shades down; a moment later, the lights in the room go out, save for a gentle glow that could belong to a string of lights somewhere in the room.

She leaves the window open.

Bed springs squeak rhythmically. Chloe gasps; Beca whimpers. One of them makes a high keening sound; the other whispers something. The noises grow louder, lewder. Chloe starts swearing. "Shit—oh, fuck… Bec, yes, there, oh my God, Bec… shit, God, fuck—, Bec—ah, Beca!" Her cries ring out, escalating and rising until—

Silence.

Then repeat.

* * *

Flo sits in her statistics class, chin resting on her fist. She's looking at the professor as he lectures, but her eyes are glazed over. She's wearing a more revealing shirt than usual today, the perfect skin of her throat and chest leading down, down, to her cleavage. A pen twirls in her free hand, rotating around and around and around her fingers.

* * *

Emily does schoolwork in the library, her psychology textbook propped up against her water bottle. According to her syllabus, there's an exam next week she needs to study for.

She hunches over her notes, entirely absorbed in them. Her upper back arches, bends her face over her textbook, the smooth lines of her neck irresistible.

She plays with her hair nervously as she studies, so absently that she probably doesn't even realize she's doing it. She bites on her lower lip, pulling it between her teeth. Her eyebrows draw together as she reads, eyes flicking back and forth across the page.

* * *

Chloe and Stacie walk back to the Bella house from the campus gym together. They walk leisurely, talking about their classes and their workout.

Their arms are defined, Chloe's more than Stacie's. Chloe is shorter, her legs less impressive than Stacie's. In that way, they balance one another out. On top, Stacie only wears a sports bra, her lower back smooth and shining with sweat from her workout; Chloe has a sleeveless top that hugs her form.

They both wear skin-tight yoga pants. Stacie's are black, Chloe's are pink. Their hips sway as they walk, drawing the eye like a magnet. Step, lift, sway to the side, repeat. Chloe's ass is maybe a little better than Stacie's, so wonderfully heart-shaped, but it's hard to tell without touching either of them.

* * *

I pass their house, forcing myself not to turn my head and watch Chloe and Stacie climb the stairs, though I normally love the sight. It would be too obvious. They might feel my eyes on them. Though they haven't yet. They have no idea.

Instead, I keep walking, not changing my pace, not giving them any reason to be suspicious of me. I walk, counting my steps, measuring them out, memorizing the distance that separates us until I turn at the next house and make my way up the maintained, carefully edged front walk. From here, I can still hear the opening of their front door, can hear Stacie call, "The hot ones are home!" over the sound of Chloe's laughter and another voice—Cynthia Rose, I can tell—replies, "That's for sure," even as Amy's voice protests—and then the door closes, muffling the noise from within.

That's okay.

Smiling to myself, I ascend my own front steps, noticing that I should sweep them again, and slide my key into the lock, hearing the metallic scrape and click. I repeat the process, three, four, five more times on the deadbolts and locks I'd custom installed, until finally my front door swings open.

I go to the kitchen, boil water, and make tea. Chamomile.

Based on what I'd heard, they'll all be gathered on the first floor; I take the steaming mug of tea and move to the single piece of furniture I have on this floor: a wooden rocking chair. I can't lift it up while holding my drink, so I have to drag it, scraping against the wood flooring, until I have it in the right spot. The floor already displays marks from the chair, but that's how I know I have the exact positioning.

They can't see me, but I can see them.

I settle into the chair with a sigh, blowing on the surface of my tea to cool it. I stare through my window and into that of the neighboring house to where Stacie and Chloe have joined Cynthia Rose, Amy, and Beca in the kitchen. I hadn't heard Beca when I was outside, but I'm not surprised she's there, waiting for Chloe. Even as I watch, Chloe—after glancing around to make sure none of the others are looking—wraps her arms around Beca's waist from behind, pressing her lips briefly to the side of Beca's neck. They think no one sees, but I do. I always see.

I lift the string of my teabag, using it to stir the beverage before taking another sip.

They have no idea.


End file.
